J - How Michael Caine played cupid to me and Karen

I come to on your sofa; the nape of my neck fits like a correct
jigsaw piece in your groin as you slumber, contorted, like a hollywood
extra ordered to be "dead". I look over towards the TV shelf and see
Michael Caine on the cover of your "Get Carter" video. I swear that I
see his poker-faced gangster glare soften, the mask slipping; he winks
at me. I realise why.

Because if he hadn't animated this potentially pedestrian film with a
powerhouse performance, you wouldn't have walked into a shop and bought
it. And I wouldn't have asked Stuart, your ex-boyfriend and my
erstwhile work mate, (backstabbing, two-timing little shit, we both
know now) to borrow it. He wouldn't have said yes, even though it was
yours. You would have had no pretence to phone me a year later,
requesting it back. I wouldn't have got my mum to post it to me. (Why
didn't I have it sent directly to you? Hmm, I wonder.) We wouldn't have
met up in Dry Bar, Manchester, for a chat and a drink and a
video-return. And you wouldn't have agreed to follow me back to my
grubby shared house in Chorlton for a Sunday Roast; you wouldn't have
drunk too many gin and tonics to drive, and agreed to sleep on the
couch in my bedroom. I wouldn't have loomed over you, and cringingly
asked if we could do this again. You wouldn't have said "Yes" and "By
the way, yes you can", causing me to ask "Can what?" and you to reply
"Kiss me goodnight." I would never have told you for the first time "I
love you" in a Welsh caravan after a night of laughter. I wouldn't have
had you by my side in that bar in Corfu when I felt like the bottom had
fallen out of my world again, crying into Amstel beer. You wouldn't
have been there to put your arm round me and demand that I light a fag
- even though you hate me smoking. I would never have known what a good
soul you have, and how "for real" you are. I would never have been able
to hold you when you felt low about your nursing course, and reminded
you that a person like you can't fail in life.

Yes, you blew my mind and - as Michael quips - you were only supposed
to blow the bloody doors off. And so I look to Michael and tell him
that before he brought us together, we were just two 29-year old
cynical damaged love-hacks resolving to hang up our hearts. Michael
jokes, "You were big hearts, but you were out of shape!" I laugh, and
tell him I admire all the usual stuff (The Italian Job; Zulu). I think
he says, "No, THIS is the best thing I ever did," indicating the scene
in your living room. I raise my half-cup of cold milk-smegging coffee
in his direction, and he says, "And notta lotta people know that." With
this, his expression returns to its original state. I hear your grizzly
sleep-talk. You will never know this. And I lay back again, dozing,
with a smile like the cat that got the majority share-holding in
Elmlea.